


I have dreamed of the divinity (Inside and out of you)

by Miele_Petite



Series: Over oceans unknown (You are always with me) [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Rome, Angst, Fanart, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Masturbation, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, solo angelic ecstacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 19:40:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20765867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miele_Petite/pseuds/Miele_Petite
Summary: Aziraphale is delighted that Crowley has nipped into Rome for a quick temptation, but the demon is certainly not keen on staying after encountering Caligula. They go for those oysters, but Crowley wishes he hadn't as things get harder for him than he expected, and the angel also wants something he can't have.(Includes an illustration)





	I have dreamed of the divinity (Inside and out of you)

There is some kiss we want with our whole lives-

a touch of spirit on the body.

Seawater begs the pearl to break its shell,

and the lily, how passionately it needs some wild darling.

-Rumi

Aziraphale paces uneasily, his sandals softly scuffing the mosaic floor, as he considers his latest assignment. Working in Rome has presented a bit of a challenge to him, in general, as an angel. Firstly, there are just so many people, and such complicated relationships. Humans are really excelling at organizational structure these days, not to mention the familial intrigue. Every time he turns around there's a new alliance or a betrayal- it's enough to make one's head spin. Additionally, and even more daunting, is that while it isn't always difficult to persuade the locals to do good works, getting them to do so for the _right reasons_ is made much harder because of the first point. It seems that everyone here has a price, which means, aside from being unsavoury and making his job more difficult, it's been a headache to blend in without compromising his nature. He's doing his best, but it is all so tiresome, he reflects, pressing his fingers to his forehead. 

Lately, even the heretofore simple occupation of spreading general goodwill has been largely hampered by what he considers a very poor choice of leadership on the humans' part, and he is feeling overwhelmed by their collective anxiety. And to top it off, Gabriel's just been down to tell him he's being assigned to influence a child, who, because of his parentage, may be in a position to tip the scales towards the side of good, eventually. Nero's sphere of influence is already quite large though, he's certain, and he'll only be a small part of it. Tsk. When he thinks about the amount of damage he'll be trying to undo... Well, miracles or no, it's a very tall task in the scheme of things, so he's feeling a bit anxious himself. 

He'd probably be able to think about it better on a full stomach, he reasons. As an angel, he doesn't technically have to eat, but there is something very calming about it that could perhaps help him come up with a plan. This is one of the few bright spots in this assignment in Rome, he thinks, fondly- the food culture is getting very interesting. Food has always been a social practice for humans, but in Rome it's been inspired to new heights. So many variations and preparations, not to mention _vintages-_ it's a veritable feast for the senses. As an angel he probably shouldn't indulge as much as he has done, but this is Rome after all, and there's hardly a meeting that takes place without a meal being involved. That decided then, he smooths out his toga and heads out from his villa to check out what delightful thing they've thought of today in that regard. Probably something with garum again, he thinks- it is all the rage right now. As he walks along, excited about the possibilities, and ruminating on how he's going to approach his new assignment, he feels a demonic presence on the edge of his awareness, and stops in his tracks.

It's a familiar presence, he realizes, and finds himself smiling. Crawley! Well, Crowley. He'd said he'd decided to change his name last time they met, Aziraphale remembers. He'd never understood the demon's propensity for change, but never mind. He'd changed his appearance too, several times since they left Eden, but of course he was always recognizable. At any rate, he was- despite being a demon- an agreeable companion, and what a sight for sore eyes he'd be right now. He’s not in near enough vicinity to see though, yet. Many times Aziraphale would only just brush the edge of the others' aura- he'd sense the demon but never actually see him. Those times were nice too, but today he could really use a distraction. It's only been eight years since he last saw Crowley, a tiny drop in the barrel of time they usually went between encounters, but he was admittedly missing the demon already, so his presence here is definitely a welcome respite from Azirapahale’s current troubles. If he could only just get close enough, he might be able to find him.

* * *

Crowley is having a terrible day. He hates Rome, hates his hair like this, and hates togas (how is one supposed to keep up with all this fabric?). Granted, today is really just one in a long string of wretched days, and he thinks it's going about as relatively unbearable as the rest. He's lurking in a Roman garden with a bitter taste in the back of his throat that might be bile, but that he wishes were poison strong enough to finish him. He couldn't know that in the scheme of things, personally speaking, it is about to get worse. He does know, though, that he needs a drink, to numb the skin crawling disgust that his last job has left him with, so he straightens his toga and heads for the closest bar he can find.

* * *

Aziraphale spends the afternoon attempting to think about his assignment, but mostly wandering around, trying to guess where Crowley is likely to be, and trying to get there first. He tries the baths- no demon there, but he does take the opportunity to dab on a lovely perfume (another nice human contrivance he's come to enjoy). He tries a few temples and even a garden, feeling a bit nostalgic then, but only ever feels Crowley on the edge of his perception. 

Aziraphale lucks out at last, settled in a dive bar with a charming view of the temple of Asclepius across the river, where he finally feels the demon’s energy approaching. He waits in a corner, pretending to play a game of terni kapilli (which isn't a terribly good cover to be honest, as he's lacking a partner), when he hears Crowley at the bar. In the roughly three seconds it takes him to move from his stake-out position to the counter (while trying not to appear too obvious that he was laying in wait) he notices two things. First, the previous softness in Crowley's appearance is gone. He looks hawkish- more masculine, to employ a human notion. His dark flame locks are cropped close now, and he's hiding his golden eyes behind dark lenses. The effect isn't unattractive, he concludes, but it's so radically different, Aziraphale's taken aback for a moment. The other thing he notices is that Crowley appears to be in quite a foul mood.

Crowley feels the rush of angelic presence before he sees Aziraphale, and groans internally. His chirpy bullshit is the last thing he needs today, not to mention he's a smugly un-fallen reminder of the demon's lot in life, which after what he's just seen and done is too much. Damn it all to head office.

"Crawley?" Aziraphale exclaims, so excited he's forgotten the name change he's been practicing in his head all afternoon. "Crowley?" he corrects awkwardly. "Fancy running into you here!"

The demon does not appear happy to see him, so he clumsily tries some humour in an attempt at cheer. "Still a demon, then?" he asks (of course wishing like anything for a moment that the answer could be no).

"What kind of stupid question is that?" Crowley barks back. "What else am I going to be, an aardvark?"

"Just trying to make conversation," the angel offers, apologetically.

"Well don't."

They sit in silence for a moment, Crowley brooding, and Aziraphale chewing his lip while anxiously twisting his pinky ring. He's spent hours looking for Crowley, and is desperate for any reason to keep his company for as long as he can. Unfortunately he's at a loss for what to do now, with the demon not wanting to talk, all his newly developed Roman schmoozing gone out the window.

After a few tense minutes, Crowley senses he's not going to lose the angel that easily, and relents, sighing.

"Cup of wine?" he offers. "It's the house wine- dark." He gestures to the bartender. "A cup for my acquaintance here."

The bartender smirks and passes over an empty cup. Looking at this swish bloke she reckons she knows what kind of acquaintance he is. 

Crowley pours some wine from the jug and hands the cup to Aziraphale.

The angel, beaming now to be back on speaking terms with him, offers a toast.

"Salutaria!" 

Resigned now to this interaction, the demon closes the toast with a dull clunk of pottery.

"In town long?" the angel tries again, hoping this means that Crowley is more amenable to conversation now.

"Just nipped in for a quick temptation."

He doesn't look happy about it, but the angel keeps going. "Tempting anyone special?" he inquires.

"Emperor Caligula," Crowley replies. "Frankly he doesn't actually need any tempting to be appalling. Going to report it back to head office as a flaming success."

Aziraphale figures that explains his mood then. He can't imagine that job had been pleasant.

Against every fiber of his being telling him not to, Crowley continues, prompting more conversation from the angel. "You?" he asks.

The angel tries to stay casual. "They want me to influence a boy called Nero. I thought I'd get him interested in music. Improve him."

"Couldn't hurt. So what else are you up to while you're in Rome?" the demon asks, feigning interest.

"I thought I'd go to Petronius' new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters," the angel replies.

"I've never eaten an oyster," Crowley reflects, turning back to his wine.

Aziraphale sees an opening to extending their time together and doesn't hesitate. "Oh well, let me tempt you to-" he starts, before realizing the connotation. "Oh no, that's your job isn't it?"

The demon's brows raise in surprise over his glasses. That was actually passably funny, whether the angel meant it to be or not. Also, he finds himself genuinely pleased by the offer. He feels his mood beginning to lift. 

"Well, technically," he teases, "but you're doing so well maybe we should swap."

Aziraphale titters nervously.

"You never know, you might like it," Crowley says with a wolfish grin. "Lots of perks being a demon. Offices are never too cold, for a start."

* * *

Getting into Petronius' place on such short notice should have been impossible, but Aziraphale is so excited that Crowley is receptive to his invitation, he makes it happen. He has made connections in Rome, after all (despite his un-Roman reluctance to sleep with or kill anyone to get them) he might as well take advantage of them. He's particularly keen to share his delight in human culture with Crowley, because his work colleagues are usually repulsed by his adoption of their customs, and it's good to be with someone who isn't inclined to judge his indulgences. The demon hasn't ever seemed to mind, and in fact, he seems particularly pleased with the wine tonight. It is rather good. 

As they recline and enjoy their wine after dinner, Crowley reflects that he's not been this relaxed since, well, ever. It's ironic considering he's sitting with an angel, who should be his enemy. He shifts on the chaise, stretching out his long legs beneath his tumble of black toga. The music is pleasant, the wine is more than drinkable, and the oysters (though a strange experience to be sure) had been a revelation, honestly. Their conversation is now flowing easily, as it's been these past four thousand years, the angel yammering on about something he's read. It's strange, he thinks, but here in the close, soft-lit atmosphere their interaction is starting to seem deeper, more familiar. It's the fault of the wine, he's decides, but he's finding the angel even more companionable than usual. 

Aziraphale smiles and sighs on the adjacent couch. "It's a shame you have to move on tomorrow." 

"Not really," Crowley replies, frowning. He looks at the humans around them, suddenly reminded of the unpleasantness of earlier today. _They get to touch me_, he thinks, grinding his teeth,_ doubt they touch you_. "This place is a bit much when you're in my line of work," he explains, simply.

Aziraphale doesn't follow, just knows the demon is keen to leave and he'll be alone again. Of course Crowley wouldn't feel the same way about our association, he thinks. He's a demon after all. The angel's face falls a little and he looks down into his cup. "Yes, I suppose that's true," he replies, softly.

Crowley sees his reaction and feels he's going to have to preempt a pout. He can't handle it when Aziraphale pouts. "This has been nice, though," he says, to cheer him up.

The angel twists to face the demon, lamp light caught like stars in his eyes. "Very nice," he agrees, just above a whisper. 

Crowley glances over, catching that look and suddenly he thinks that maybe it is a shame after all. In the low light those pale eyes look even more heavenly than usual, and the angel's scent of rose oil and myrrh drifts over him, intoxicating. He freezes. There's no snap of the fingers, no use of power, and yet as he looks over at those down-soft curls, those wine-red lips, there it is, plain as day- a temptation. How has he managed it?

Aziraphale looks away, aware now, of a change in the crowd around them. He knows what's about to happen. Of course he does, he's been in Rome a while, he's not unfamiliar with the completeness of Petronius' hospitality (though not a recipient himself, of the next course). He knows that it's going to be time for them to leave in a moment, but he's reluctant, trying to eke a few more minutes of time with Crowley before he's thrown to loneliness again. 

Crowley can also sense the subtle change in the humans' dynamic. Too much wine, too much entertainment, and their laughter is growing louder, their bodies pressing closer. He looks past Aziraphale's shoulder and can see things starting to unfold with more speed than should be acceptable, but when you're mortal you don't waste time, he knows. Hands are roving, lips finding contact, clothing pulls and gathers, exposing skin that's pulsing with lust. It's part of his job to encourage this type of behaviour in humans of course, and he'd started plenty of this shit in his day, but not this one (they did this all on their own). There's nothing untoward, demonically speaking, about him seeing this mess between mortals, but he certainly doesn't want to stick around and see the carnage, never does.

He looks back at the angel who has gone quiet and still, and wonders why he's not making his exit. He seems oblivious, beautifully innocent among all this sin. Crowley feels something catch in his chest. The humans aren't appealing, nor what they are doing on the periphery of his vision, that's never affected him before, but _Aziraphale_ is more attractive now to him than he's ever seemed. The demon's heart begins to pound. He takes in the sweet white curve of the angel's neck, imagines what those soft, gently parted lips could do, and he's suddenly on fire.

Aziraphale is just about to rise and suggest they leave when a sudden thought makes him uneasy- what if when he goes to leave, Crowley would rather stay? He is a _demon_ after all. As if in answer, he feels the other's aura warming. It's awkward but understandable, he thinks, until he realizes that the feeling is aimed at himself, not the humans at all. The angel isn't sure what to make of it, and his face reddens in embarrassment. He has no idea what he should do. 

Crowley can't move, can't take his eyes off the angel, who should be long gone by now, but hasn't moved an inch. Doesn't he know what is happening? But he's blushing, the demon thinks, he can see it all over his face. _Does he want to stay? _he wonders, in shock. Beneath his toga, something monstrous is happening. He has the sudden urge to push Aziraphale down onto his chaise and pull that immaculate white tunic up, all the way past his hips. He wants to spread him open, to press into him like a human would do, wants their voices to join the chorus of pleasure that is building now, just feet away. His breathing quickens and he tries not to touch himself, even as his effort strains for contact. _Does Aziraphale want that?_ he wonders. _Could he?_

The fantasy darkens, though, as Crowley remembers what he is, and knows what would really have to happen, for him to get that close to an angel. He imagines how Aziraphale would cry out in alarm, how he would struggle, probably strike him. It hurts in the pit of his stomach. He'd probably get a medal from Hell, he thinks bitterly, for taking advantage of an angel like that, and he's sickened by the thought. He doesn't want that, he only wants to please him, but he knows that's ridiculous, _he's a bloody angel_. And that's a terrible thing for him to want as a demon, to please an angel. His mind is cartwheeling now, trying to keep proper demonic thoughts in the same head as these ridiculous romantic delusions about an angel. Crowley is stricken by this want, and his heart aches even as his effort does the same. Rome is worse of a torture than Hell, he thinks. He's not coming back here, if he can help it, _not ever_.

A patrician approaches them then, as Crowley tries to shake off his thoughts, but the withering glare the demon gives the man over the rim of his smoky glasses makes him veer immediately to another, more receptive clump of patrons. He realizes they are in real danger now of being swept up in the action, of someone touching the angel, and he can't let that happen. He needs to get them out of there. 

He lightly taps Aziraphale's elbow. "C'mon, angel, I think it's time we were leaving."

The angel sets down his cup, startled from his thoughts. "Oh yes, I think you might be right, dear fellow. It's becoming a bit of a scene in here, isn't it?" he laughs nervously, looking around with brows raised, but not at all surprised.

* * *

When they emerge into the street, Crowley goes to take his leave, quietly, as he often does when they part, a quick hand raised in goodbye. He's eager to get away, to take his shame and wallow in it while no one else is looking. But before he can leave, Aziraphale stops him.

"Look, Crowley," he says, seeming flustered, "I'm not totally defenseless you know."

Crowley looks at him, afraid that what he wants right now is obvious, and it's a warning. "What?"

"Back there, all that... commotion. I mean, I've been in Rome a while, I can take care of myself."

"Oh, um, yeah sure, sorry," he says, in clipped syllables, relieved.

"I appreciate you looking out for me though," the angel says, with one of his irritating wiggles and a simpering smile. 

The sight of it stabs Crowley's heart. Trusting bastard. 

"Don't mention it." he replies, knowing there are far worse things than handsy humans he could worry about.

Aziraphale suddenly gets a faraway look in his eyes. "I don't suppose it would be a good idea for me to invite you back to mine? For another drink, I mean, since we were... interrupted."

Crowley blinks for the first time all evening, and makes a strangled noise. He's itching to accept, but he's orchestrated enough of his own personal disasters to see one coming. "Better not," he says instead. "You've got that Nero kid to influence right? Wouldn't do to go getting arse over tits and botch that."

Aziraphale winces at his foul language, but smiles softly. "Right. You're right," he agrees. He looks down at his sandals and wrings his hands. He doesn't want to say goodbye, but it's time. 

Crowley feels like a heel, but he can't possibly tell the angel the reason he can't go back with him is that he wants to, just too much.

"Hey, angel-" he says, and Aziraphale looks up, hopeful. "Thanks for dinner though. I'll, um, see you around?"

"Of course," the angel says, bright smiling again. "Until we meet again, then, I suppose." Aziraphale hesitates, then steps almost imperceptibly closer to the demon. A strange look is on his face, but before Crowley can decipher it, the angel sighs and steps back again. He gives a quick nod of farewell.

He turns then to go, and the demon watches as he walks away, cutting a path through the throngs of late night revelers loitering in the via, somehow bright and untouched even as he makes his way into the crowd. Crowley stands there, barefaced longing, until the angel is just a speck in the distance before turning and making his way to his own rooms. He falls into bed that night feeling dark and desperate, and for the first time (though certainly not the last) he hitches up the black folds of his tunic and clumsily, hastily, brings himself relief, all the while imagining the angel's body against him. Afterwards, the ache in his member resolved, but not the one in his heart (there's no easy cure for that), he can't decide if he feels better or worse. It's cleared his head, at least, and he's used to feeling bad as a demon, anyway. He leaves before dawn.

* * *

He wasn't to know, but might have felt better if he had known, that after leaving him Aziraphale went back to his villa feeling just as troubled. The angel drinks way more wine than is wise, but he's desperate to wash down his burning embarrassment. Not only had he foolishly invited Crowley back to his place, but the demon had turned him down. _And for what?_ he asks himself. For a drink, as his pretense had suggested, or for the kiss he'd wanted to press, experimentally into the other's lips, even as they stood in the street? He crumples into himself with his head in his hands and groans. He really shouldn't have been reading so much poetry of late. Kisses are a human thing, and he's so grown to like human things. They serve as a greeting here in Rome, he sees them all the time, but he's never had any touch like that, and they seem so lovely. Of course the other angels scoff at such human conventions, but not Crowley. The demon had been down here just as long, had seemingly grown to appreciate humanity. _Maybe_ he would like kisses, too. Aziraphale realizes suddenly he actually wouldn't want to share one with any of those reproachful angels, but had so wanted to touch Crowley that way, show him how happy he was to see him. And perhaps it might mean more- a thank you, for being such good company, for being _really_ the only friend he's had here the last four thousand years. 

But can they be friends? An angel and a demon? He sighs. He knows that they are already, and it's too late to ask himself stupid questions like that, but he also knows it won't do to go advertising it. He could get the demon into so much trouble. He can't kiss Crowley, it's absurd. He thinks of Judas and closes his eyes, shakes his head to clear it of the thought.

Later, though, when he's crawled into bed, fantastically drunk, in the dark with his private thoughts, he imagines how it would have felt- sighing, with a finger pressed to his lips. And then, not for the first time, and certainly not the last, he thinks of other, more intimate things he wishes he could do, in his true form, to Crowley- if he was an angel, and in his.

He can, of course, manage ecstasy all by himself. He wants it so badly, and so he dissolves into it, opening on another plane so many eyes in perfect arousal. In this space all of his longing is so easily fulfilled, it evaporates in the face of such all-encompassing love. No one ever need know that he's imagining a connection he can't have, here in the midst of it. Here, he- and they- could be anything and everything. As he reaches the apex of the feeling, he has become a great wide ocean, surging and crashing against a rocky shore that rises up to meet him. He flows around and into it, beating against its solidity, pleading erosion of the rocks that stand, unmoved. When at long last he recedes, leaving those smooth stones trailed in sighing foam, a wake of fulfillment, a multitude of eyes wink closed once more.

As he returns his awareness, gasping, to his body, salt water ocean now only in his eyes, his chest is sheened with sweat above his racing heart. Blinking as the light of his halo recedes, he presses his hands to his face and wipes away the tears. He can't decide if he feels better or worse, but it doesn't matter. He is a being of love, after all, made from it. There's nothing wrong, probably, with him wanting to share it- that drive isn't unreasonable. He wants to ask Her, but he doesn't dare. Being down here with humans, with their love, and their poetry, and their pleasures... perhaps it is affecting him a bit more than he should allow. He lays there till morning, not sleeping (he never does). His heart will still ache a bit longer, of course, but that too will fade as the darkness is chased away by the sunrise. Tomorrow is now today, and Crowley will be gone, and he has a job to do.

* * *

Epilogue:

Centuries later, when he and the angel they are no longer on opposite sides, and are free to call what they have what it is (love), Crowley will finally go back to Rome, willingly. Aziraphale insists on visiting the Vatican Library when they are in Italy, and as usual he is compelled to indulge whatever the angel's heart desires. They go there together, and hold hands as they walk along the same street where they parted ways two millennia ago. So much has changed, not just the city, but himself- and of course the angel at his side, and what they are now, to each other. 

The memory still bothers him, though, and that night, awash in wine and love, as he's moving inside Aziraphale he whispers to him, "Do you remember that night? With the oysters?" 

The angel, still lost in pleasure, blinks his eyes open. He remembers what a fool he'd nearly made of himself back then and smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yes?" 

"I wanted to do this to you then," Crowley says, voice suddenly raw with emotion, "I almost tried, but I knew you'd probably smite me, or at least hate me." 

Aziraphale kisses his neck. "I don't think I would have done either of those things, dear, I loved you even then." He sighs. "You know I could sense it a bit, how you felt. It was a bit of a shock- I wasn’t even sure what a demon would want. I couldn’t have imagined, well, _this_,” he gestures at their bodies pressed together. “But I knew what I felt for you was similar. I could never hate you for feeling the same, in your way. I _was_ a bit worried that you might do something dangerous, but I think I would have stopped you gently."

Crowley stops and bites his lip, embarrassed. "You knew?" Then his eyes widen as he remembers their interaction in the street. "Why the hell did you invite me back to your place, then?!"

The angel sighs and closes his eyes, his turn to be embarrassed. "Because, erm, well there was something I wanted to do to you, too, maybe."

"What thing?!" the demon asks, astonished.

Aziraphale chuckles and hides his blushing face in Crowley's shoulder. "I wanted to kiss you," he mumbles.

The demon starts up his rhythm again, grinning now, like the proverbial cat that got the cream. "You wanted to _kiss_ me? _Oh, angel_, I can’t believe what a naughty, wicked thing you were! Tsk. Completely debauched."

Aziraphale laughs again, but then his eyes flutter closed and he hums appreciatively as Crowley leans back into the task at hand.

"Have I ever told you how adorable you are?" the demon whispers, into the angel's hair.

"Not today," Aziraphale murmurs into his shoulder. 

"Well," Crowley says, "You are. And very kissable. But I’m glad I didn’t go back with you, because if you had kissed me that night, I might have been discorporated."

"How about now?" 

"I guess it's a risk I'm willing to take now," he says, and kisses him several dozen times that night, to make up for missed opportunity.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear readers- I didn't plan the epilogue but angst isn't my fave thing to read and my story without it bummed me out so much I made them talk it out. Tell me if YOU think I should have left it out, or if you needed it to feel better, and preferred it with.
> 
> Also, I'm planning more stories with Aziraphale reaching his own ecstacy- did you like the imagery? Would you like to suggest any other forms he/they might take?


End file.
